


All But For A Memory

by anamatics



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 23:03:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamatics/pseuds/anamatics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a memory trapped for safekeeping, locked away by a spell, that Hermione knows she can never truly allow herself to remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All But For A Memory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frost_bones](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=frost_bones).



> Written for Frost_Bones for the Fleurmione SS. The prompt was Hermione teaches Fleur about some muggle thing. I naturally picked a very awkward muggle thing indeed. Hope you like.

They don't know what to do with Sirius' motorbike after everything was said and done.  It sits in a parking place in front of Grimmauld place under a tarp for the entire summer before Harry's muggle neighbors complain to the city and they come to tow it away.  Harry had wanted to fix it up and give it to Neville, but it was in directly violation to countless laws, so they shoved it into the garden shed out behind Hermione's parent's house.  He'd glared at Hermione out there in the garden, but Hermione had folded her arms and turned her nose up to him.  She was not going to have this argument with him.  It was foolish and goodness knows they'd spent enough time flying around on things that were not brooms to last them several lifetimes.

"Are you, erm-- going to see the Weasleys for the hols?"  Harry asks, shifting in the squelching mud of this particularly neglected patch of her mother's garden.  He looks cold, even in his warm overcoat and Weasley jumper.

Hermione shakes her head and leans back, looking up at the grey sky -- snow sky.  She doesn't think that she'll be going this year for so many reasons.  The most important being that she and Ron are still not speaking and she doesn't want to make the first Christmas following Fred's death any worse for them with the row she and Ron are sure to have if they spend more than ten minutes in each other's presence. "I don't think so," she says at length.

The lights are on in her mother's kitchen and Hermione inclines her head.  "Do you want to get some cocoa before you go back?"

It's Harry's turn to shake his head, all fogged breath and glasses in the misty early morning.  "I can't, sorry," He doesn't look particularly comfortable in refusing her, and Hermione wonders if this is what happens after school, when your best friends in the whole world go their separate ways.  Ron's in Auror training, Hermione's just sat her NEWTs, and Harry's, well, Harry's directionless.

And it isn't for lack of Hermione's trying to engage him.  He's just not responsive to her prompting.  Hermione supposes that when your life has had a singular purpose for so long, as Harry's has, that it almost makes sense to flounder a bit.  He's still haunted.  They all are.

"Alright," Hermione says as agreeably as she can.  She doesn't want to admit that she's desperate for him to come inside.  She doesn't have the heart to explain to him that her parents have no forgiven her for what she did to keep them safe, and that she's rarely in the house much at all these days because of it.  She has to be the strong one for all of them.  "I'll see you at Neville's, then?"

"Christmas party, yeah," Harry agrees.  He stomps his feet on the ground, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket.  "See you then."

They don't hug.  They don't touch each other anymore.  Hermione is grateful for it, after she and Ron went too far and realized just how whatever it was that had been building between them was not, as they'd suspected, love. They keep a respectful distance now, and Hermione hopes that someday, Ron will understand.

He raises is hand, and with a crack of displaced air, Harry is gone.

Life hasn't been normal for any of them, Hermione reasons, standing in the middle of her mother's garden.  Her arms are wrapped around herself and her breath is fogged in the air.  Things haven't been normal for so long now that Hermione forgets what it felt like to be normal at all.  She trudges back up to the house and climbs the steps to the kitchen door slowly, grudgingly almost.  Her mother is sitting in the kitchen, watching her with narrowed, suspicious eyes.

They want her to move out.

"Aren’t you worried that you'll be seen?" her mother asks, her voice a low hiss.  She's never sounded like this before, so different from the memories of Hermione's childhood.  They've from two separate worlds now, and Hermione hasn't the breath anymore to explain things for what feels like the thousandth time.  They don’t like magic any more, they don’t find it charming and they don’t like watching Hermione swish and flick and make things float across the room. 

"It's the middle of the day, mum," she replies.  She crosses to the cupboard next to the stove and takes down a glass and fills it at the tap.  "No one's around."

Once, she was concerned and overly focused on rules and regulations, but as she's grown up, Hermione has realized just how many of them are bad laws.  They're designed to hurt people, to force wizards to hide in the shadows and resent the muggles who can live openly in the light.  There's so much secrecy and not enough discourse.  Hermione hates it and doesn’t quite know how to change things.  She has ideas, yes, but no sounding board.  Ron isn't speaking to her right now, and Harry's never been particularly interested.

She takes her water upstairs without a backwards glance at her mother.  Once safely locked in her room once more, Hermione sits in the middle of her bed, wand in hand.  On her forearm is the one scar from this war that she will never be able to charm away with magic and muggle science.  She's tried to embrace it, even let Seamus try and put a tattoo around it to make it less obvious.  The ink hadn't took, dripping off of the tips of her fingers for close to a week before Hermione had given up and spelled it off completely.

Hermione lets herself fall backwards, hair and bedding flying every which way, and stares up at the ceiling.  Her cheeks puff out in frustration and she closes her eyes against the weak winter light that filters in from the window.  She hates this feeling.

She feels so powerless and she doesn't know how to fix it.

x 

Neville has moved into a flat at the heart of London, just off Diagon Alley.  He's apprenticed himself to a master of the herbology field who runs an apothecary in the alley proper.  Hermione is astounded by how he's flourished under his master's tutelage.  Potions, in particular, have never been Neville's strong suit, but he's blossomed beautifully under the kind and supportive hands of his mater.  She supposes that this is just testament to Snape being a truly ghastly professor. 

Hermione is one of ten from their year that have actually bothered to revise for and then sit their NEWTs. Everyone else has taken advantage of sympathetic employers and the fact that the whole wizarding economy has taken a huge hit from the war.  With so many dead, there are a huge number of vacant positions that the ministry and businesses alike are desperate to fill.

They’ve all gone to work, but Hermione's not stupid.  She has to have the NEWTs, and probably more to actually have the voice she craves in society and government.  They'll laugh her out of wherever she dares open her mouth otherwise.

She supposes that it's part of the plan, but she's too tired of arguing with everyone else about it.  They'll figure it out in due time; when doors are closed to them without explanation beyond their lack of marks. 

The door is decorated with a sprig of freshly-cut holly.  Hermione stands before it and knocks, staring up at the shiny brass number on the door with a far-off expression on her face.  There's a beat or two of silence before the door is pulled open and a slightly pink-cheeked Neville appears in the doorway with a wide smile on his face.  "'Mione!" he says happily, and pulls her into the light and the warmth once more.

There are not a lot people here yet, but Hermione supposed that that is what she gets for showing up to a party on time.  She rises on her tiptoes and kisses Neville on the cheek.  "Hey," she says, and lets him take her cloak.

"No one's really arrived just yet," Neville explains, emerging from where he'd stepped away and into the closet by the front door.  He's got a hangar in his hands and is putting Hermione's cloak on it.  "'cept Fleur, of course, she's always early though."

 _Ah, yes_ , Hermione thinks.  _The other great tragedy of the war._

Hermione is fairly certain that she was the only one who wasn't even remotely surprised when, as soon as the war was over, Fleur Delacour (she'd kept her last name) and Bill Weasley had announced their imminent divorce.  They'd been married for exactly one year and one day when they signed the annulment paper.  By the law that Hermione had spent a good three days she could have been revising for NEWTS researching, hold up in the basement of ten Wizarding University of London's library reading up on, that was all that Fleur had needed to be married to Bill in order to achieve British wizarding citizenship for a non-wizard magical creature.

To tell the truth, Hermione's still a little disgusted that Fleur isn't classified as a witch by the new, revisionist government. She supposes that such prejudices are so deeply engrained in British wizarding society and therefore cannot change overnight.  Goodness knows; the Weasleys had fought Bill on his marrying Fleur in the first place.

Hermione doesn't want to talk to Fleur, not really.  She's trying to figure out if there's a way of avoiding the conversation all together, busying herself helping Neville to set out dishes of nuts and chocolates and cheese while they chatter about the weather lately and Neville's apprenticeship.

Fleur sits out on the balcony, bulky cardigan falling off of one shoulder and a brilliant red scarf wrapped around her neck, smoking a cigarette and staring out into the bleak, growing night.

"Has she been out there all evening?" Hermione hisses to Neville in an undertone, her head half into kitchen where she hopes she won't be heard.

"She lives just next door, Hermione." Neville replies, handing her a package of biscuits after sniffing them.  Hermione winces, not understanding how men can possibly keep things like biscuits around for long enough for them to potentially go bad. "She just climbed over the railing between our balconies. Brought her stool with her.  Sits out there most nights, actually."

Hermione bites her lip.  "I didn't realize she lived so close," she says, and takes a biscuit.

Neville goes back to the cider that's mulling at a near-boil on the stove.  He shrugs and picks up a spoon and doesn't say anything at all.  Hermione stares at him for a moment before she takes the package of biscuits and a blanket from the back of the sofa.  She wraps it around herself like a shawl and slips out the door to the balcony outside.

It smells of wood smoke and the pine garlands that are wrapped around the railing.  Hermione's nostrils flare and she glances over at Fleur, who's eyeing her with something that might be interest, in some cultures.

It's a rather queer expression, lips pitched downwards into a frown and an eyebrow raised.  Fleur Delacour is the picture of haughty disinterest and Hermione has always hated that expression on her.

"I see zat 'ou are ze first to arrive," Fleur says, stubbing out her cigarette and tucking the hair that's spilled over her shoulders behind her ear.  "Toujours ponctuel, 'ermione."

Hermione shrugs and rests her forearms on the pine garland and peers down at the street below.  "It's silly to show up to a party on time," she says.  "Everyone knows that."

She should have known better than to come out here.  Hermione hasn't had anything to say to Fleur since that day that she never thinks about any more.  The days that came before it fuel her nightmares and have her in cold sweats while still wide awake.  It is that day, though, it is that day that Hermione has chosen to remove from her mind entirely.

She's gotten rather adept at memory charms for a reason.

It's there, though, it will never not be there.  Hermione cannot erase that feeling.  She'll never be able to erase that feeling.  A feeling and a memory and denial that is so pathologically muggle that she hates herself for not being able to accept it.

She's no better than the rest of them.

And when Fleur tilts her head and the light hits her face just right, Hermione knows why is so scared to remember that day.  Her eyes narrow and the faint blonde line of her eyebrows arches high and different and not like a human's at all.  It creases down the middle and Hermione doesn't understand it and Merlin, she wants it.

She's Odysseus, lashed to the mast of her ship, called in like the siren's song.

And Fleur is playing the part of the siren like she was _born_ for it.

"Perhaps," Fleur shrugs and the cardigan slips further off of her shoulder.  She's wearing a dress with impossibly thin straps of what looks like spun silver.  Hermione bites her lip and looks down at the package of biscuits in her hand.  She's afraid of what this means.

"Mais..." Fleur trails off, looking back out into the grey of the London sky.  "Zere is somezing in ze quiet moments, non?"

She nods mutely and holds out the package of biscuits like a shield before her.  "Want one?" she asks.

Fleur perks up and suddenly looks impossibly human once more.  "Merci." She doesn't eat it though, just holds it between two fingers like the cigarette from earlier.

People are starting to arrive now, but Hermione doesn't feel even remotely tempted to go back inside.  She can hear Ron's voice even now, and it's easier to stay out here, surrounded by the quiet and under the careful watch of Fleur Delacour.  At least Fleur, she knows, never, ever yells.

The silence between them stretches impossibly long and Hermione eats another biscuit, watching as Fleur slowly shreds her own into a fine dust that litters the balcony floor.  Neville has a small garden out here, all in containers.  Hardy, evergreen plants that are useful for household potions and cooking, all carefully arranged in rows.  She feels like an intruder.

It's only when Hermione sets the biscuit box down on the wide railing that the sleeve of her jumper and blanket-shawl slides down off of her forearm that the silence breaks.  Fleur lets out a quiet sound that's somewhere between a gasp and a pitiful-sounding coo.  Her hand flashes out and she takes Hermione's wrist in her hand without asking.

Her expression softens as Hermione tenses under her touch and she retracts her hand tentatively.  "Désolé, I did not know zat I should ask.  May I?” And this time, Hermione nods and lets herself be touched.  “Zis 'as not 'ealed?"  she asks.

The mark is raw and red as ever, only now with a few black stains where Seamus' ink hadn't quite come out.  Fleur trails her fingers over the raised skin around the wound and raises curious blue eyes to meet Hermione's own.

"It's a curse scar," Hermione says quietly.  "It will never heal completely."  Every book she's ever read says so, at any rate.

"Mais, LeStrange... Elle est mort..." Fleur mutters, almost to herself.  "It should 'ave faded."  She looks almost wild and Hermione sighs and bites her lip.  "Zey say zat such 'ounds will never 'eal, non?  C'est un tragédie, 'ou are so young 'ermione, to be marred so."

And Hermione swallows.  "You did your best," she says, not thinking of the day when she'd done too much.

"And 'ou 'ave stolen ze memory of it from zat mind of yours," Fleur reaches up then, eyes almost sad.  She taps Hermione's forehead and tilts her head to one side.  Her hair spills down over the red of her scarf, then, glowing from the light inside Neville's flat.  "Did 'ou truly zink zat I would not know ze signs?"

It would be so easy to run, to duck back into the party and to sit with Harry or Luna; to start a row with Ron.  Anything would be easier than this.  And she knows she cannot do it, because she isn't a coward.

"There's muggle theory," Hermione starts, staring down at the street below.  It's gotten cold, but she doesn't feel it.  She hasn't felt the cold in ages.  She thinks it's a residual effect of their time in the forest; Harry's always been far too forceful with his warming charms.  "That says that when one spends enough time with a person in captivity, they start to feel pity for them.  It's a strong bond, you know, and it's been documented that those who have been captured, kidnapped - tortured," Hermione shudders at the word. "They will correspond with their former captors; they will try and help them, to defend them, yeah?"

"Zat sounds razer... un'ealthy," Fleur says at length.  She reaches into her cardigan pocket and produces another cigarette.  She pauses then, and holds out the packet to Hermione.  It's a muggle brand, one she recognizes from her childhood.  She takes one out and holds it between her index and middle finger, staring down at it.

Fleur lights her cigarette with the tip of her wand, which she's produced from somewhere under her cardigan.  Shoulder holster, Hermione thinks, but she doesn't see it.  That must be some notice-me-not charm, her eyes narrow as Fleur leans forward and gestures with the now lit cigarette.  Hermione obediently leans forward and sucks in smoke and ash and the burning on her lungs is almost welcome.

"I think I'm starting to understand what they mean by it," Hermione says quietly.  She sucks in air, trying not to cough, to show that she's done this more than once or twice before.  "They call it Stockholm Syndrome."

"Et..." Fleur looks away, her expression unreadable.  "'ou 'ave taken ze memory of it away? All of it? Because zis is 'ow 'ou feel?"

Hermione doesn't know how to tell Fleur that she wakes up sometimes out of breath with her hand in her knickers and her body on the very edge.  The dreams are never pleasant, all Bellatrix's knife and teeth and so much more pain than she should ever truly want to embrace.  She doesn't think that Fleur would understand that it isn't the memory of what Fleur had done, that day, to fix things, but rather the memory of what led to that makes her wonder how truly insane the war has made her.

She's ashamed, almost.  To think about how she's entertained the idea in her darkest fantasies is almost taboo to Hermione.  She cannot appreciate that one gentle moment that Fleur had offered her that night before everything had gone to hell once more.

They'd died then, and Hermione had tried to forget.

"I..." Hermione starts.  She swallows, gasping and suddenly forgetting that she's supposed to know what she's doing with the cigarette. She hacks and splutters, the air in her lungs cutting into her and burning.

Fleur throws her head back and laughs, high and lilting, like a bird's cry on the night wind.  Hermione feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end and it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Fleur is absolutely beautiful when she's smiling.

"You..." and Fleur is able to say the letter and Hermione wants to cringe.  "'ou are 'aving a sexual crisis, non, 'ermione?"  She flicks the ash from the end of her cigarette; all amused smiles and bizarre insight that makes Hermione want to hate her all the more.  "I kissed 'ou for luck... 'ou do not need to read zat much into it."  She tilts her head to one side.  "Is zere more to it?"

Hermione swallows once, sucks on the cigarette like a lifeline and desperately wishes that there was more in it than just extremely potent wizarding tobacco.  She wants a drink, something to make this not hurt so much.  She takes a deep breath, and nods once. "I dream about that place," she says in a small voice.  "And I ..." She can't say it.

But Fleur knows anyway, as her fingers catch Hermione's wrist.  They curl there, changing, shifting, just for a second, before settling once more, human and warm to the touch.  "Did she...?"

"No," Hermione says resolutely.  "My mind just plays tricks on me at night sometimes.  It makes me want things I can't have.  Things I shouldn't want."

"Zere is nozing wrong wiz loving, 'ermione, or for wanting even zat which should not ever be wanted," Fleur replies.  She banishes what's left of her cigarette and tilts her head back to stare up at the night sky ahead.  Hermione lets her cigarette fall to the floor and stubs it out with her toe, kicking it over the balcony and onto the street below when she's sure it’s out. "Zat... zat is ze purpose of life, non?  Zere is nozing wrong wiz indulging a fantasy."

"Maybe if you're French," Hermione replies before she can catch herself.  The problem  is that she doesn’t want to indulge the fantasy and the only way to avoid it is to do something she’s not sure she can ever allow herself to do.

And maybe it's because Fleur's already laughed at her once, but it doesn't hurt so much the second time.  "'ou English et 'our ... comment-dit-on... stiff upper lip."  She lets her fingers rest on the scar on Hermione's arm, pressing in and smiling gently at her.  "'ide behind ze spell all 'ou want, 'ermione, mais regardez-vous."

She bends then, and presses her lips against the scar, the cruel word and the maniacal laughter of Bellatrix LeStrange.  "Je ne suis -" she stops herself then, lips hovering just an inch or two over Hermione's wrist.  "I will not, if 'ou do not want zis."

It’s hard to have the words then, to ask Fleur what she’s talking about.  She bites her lip and stares out over the balcony to the city below.  She doesn’t pay attention to Fleur’s fingers on her wrist or the presence the impossible question of what it all means once more.  She can’t quite put her finger on it, but she thinks it means that Fleur was perfectly serious the last time.

And the thought terrifies her.

Hermione turns her wrist, twisting it around and catching Fleur’s hand, her body twisting upwards and her fingers curling around Fleur’s wrist.  They’re nose to nose now, eyes close and Hermione is struck – not for the first time – at how very blue Fleur’s eyes are.  Her nostrils flare out and that strange crease at the center of her eyebrows – the one that always tends to throw Hermione for a loop and makes her feel as though she’s forgotten something vitally important about Fleur.  Hermione knows that it’s not just because she’s not entirely human, but rather that there’s always something that she feels has been egregiously overlooked about Fleur Delacour.  She sees far, far more than she lets on.

It’s hard to match Fleur’s stare, but Hermione does what she thinks is the best job that she could possibly do.  She takes a deep breath and lets her fingers tighten around Fleur’s wrist.  “Fleur – I…”

What she wants to say is cut off by the door sliding open and Ginny poking her head outside.  “Neville says the cider’s ready,” she says.  She seems almost like she’s pretending not to notice Hermione’s blush or the way that Fleur looks away, her cardigan falling completely off of one shoulder.  She hasn’t bothered to fix it, or to pull her wrist back, which Hermione thinks is a good sign.  She doesn’t particularly want to let go.

Ginny has taken the idea that her favorite brother has not married for looks (and _Merlin_ would she go on about that) to heart and seems to like Fleur a lot better now that she’s just a strange anecdote in the great saga of the Weasley family.  She smiles brightly at Fleur and turns her gaze back to Hermione, “And Harry wanted to talk to you about Sirius’ motorbike.”

Hermione lets out a low groan and nods once.  “I’ll be in soon,” she replies.  Ginny flashes her what Hermione can only think is a hopeful expression before disappearing inside once more.  The door slides shut and silence falls down around them.

Fleur’s fingers trail a pattern over the top of Hermione’s hand, and she shivers.

“’ou should go inside and socialize,” Fleur says.

“I’m doing just fine out here,” Hermione answers.  The feeling of the repressed memory is growing stronger in her mind now, and she lets the wild magic about her, about this moment even, seep into her mind and push against the edges of her consciousness.  The spell shatters into a million tiny pieces of careful arithmancy and spell creation, and the well of emotion that Hermione falls down in that one brief instant is enough to force the breath from her lungs. 

She remembers.

Fleur’s nostrils flare again and she leans forward, her expression curious.  Their foreheads are almost touching now.  She’s so close and Hermione can scarcely keep her heart from racing.  She tries for as long as she can before she loses control and lets her heart race.  The memories of that day and all her careful attempts to forget it completely flood over her and Hermione lets herself fall.

As the sun was setting on the eve of their departure for Gringotts and everything truly insane that they were about to do, Hermione had stood on the beach barefoot despite the chill in the air.  She’d been wearing Fleur’s sweater, maybe even the same cardigan that she’s wearing now on this chilly December evening, and the waves had lapped icy cold water at her feet. 

For the longest time, Hermione had thought about walking into the ocean and never coming back.  She’d stood there on the edge of the sea and had wished that she did not feel all that she could not put into words. Harry and Ron did not understand.  Luna pretended like she did, but she was so caught up in her own memories and trauma that her advice was lost on Hermione.  The curse remnants lingered, clinging to the corners of Hermione’s psyche and cutting deeply into her ability to heal. 

Fleur had done her best, pushing the limits of all the healing spells she knew.  She’d sat with Hermione, speaking to her in low French that Hermione still did not pretend to understand.  Her words had drawn Hermione back to life once, out of the shell of what had happened and into the light. 

She’d stood before the ocean and had contemplated walking into it to avoid having to perpetuate the lie of everything that she knew to be true.  She could never be Bellatrix.

And Fleur had come then, wrapped up in a hand-knit shawl and strange expression on her face.  “’ou ‘ad been gone a while…” was all that she’d had to say before Hermione was sobbing into that shawl and babbling about how she knew that she could never succeed. 

Fleur had kissed her then, their ankles sinking into the sand and the waves lapping around bare feet that swept away to freezing cold.  She’d tilted Hermione’s chin up and had asked if this was what she’d wanted.  And Hermione had said yes without even thinking about it. She’d known then, oh, how she’d known.  She’d known and she didn’t think she could ever forget. 

It had been a night like this one, crisp and cold for the season, when Hermione had stood in the shadows of Hogwarts and turned her wand upon herself.  With so many who were skilled with legilimancy running around, it hadn’t seemed safe to remember that moment.  She’d kissed Ron that night, and it had felt so wrong and terrible and she’d done it again and again, trying to figure it out. 

“’ermione,” Fleur says.  Her fingers are cold as she reaches up to touch Hermione’s cheek and her expression turns almost bird-like for a moment, all puffed up and confused-looking.  “’ou were a million miles away.”

The spell is broken; the memory of Fleur’s kiss then is on her mind now.  It was an earnest offer of everything that Hermione has been afraid to dare think of outside of her darkest dreams and her truly horrible nightmares.

“I’m not having a sexuality crisis,” Hermione says firmly.  All the bravery that she hasn’t felt in years has returned and is raging against the uncertainty that grips her gut.  She tightens her grip on Fleur’s wrist.  “I don’t want to… I don’t know… I don’t want to do this anymore.”

Fleur inclines her head to one side.  “Do what?"

One swallow, a promise of everything that she’s afraid of, suppressed into a single gulp of air down into her chest.  She wants to say so much, but she’s a Gryffindor through and through.  Actions, sometimes, do speak louder.  She rises up on tiptoes and presses her lips to Fleur’s cheek.  She smells of cigarettes and wine, a heady mixture of winter air and of the pine that’s all around them. 

Fingers rest on her cheeks and pull her face front and center, focusing her attention and Fleur is stealing her breath in a kiss for all the world to see.  Hermione cannot bring herself to care as she hears the distant sound of breaking glass and the quiet murmur of voices inside escalate into something that could be a commotion. 

“J’ai pense…” Fleur beings, pulling away, her lips and breath on Hermione’s own.  “I am glad, ‘ermione.”

“Me too,” Hermione answers.  She pulls away just enough to glance in the window.  Harry and Ron are staring at her with slack expression and open mouths, just visible through the fogged up window panes of the balcony doors.  Ginny is talking to Luna and Neville is spelling a spot in the carpet clean where Harry’s evidentially dropped his beer.  There are more faces inside now than before, and Hermione doesn’t care who’s seen them.  This is a step in the right direction, she knows it. 


End file.
